The Adventures Harry Richmond — Volume 1 eBook

My father could soon make me forget that I was transplanted;
he could act dog, tame rabbit, fox, pony, and a whole
nursery collection alive, but he was sometimes absent
for days, and I was not of a temper to be on friendly
terms with those who were unable to captivate my imagination
as he had done. When he was at home I rode him
all round the room and upstairs to bed, I lashed him
with a whip till he frightened me, so real was his
barking; if I said ‘Menagerie’ he became
a caravan of wild beasts; I undid a button of his
waistcoat, and it was a lion that made a spring, roaring
at me; I pulled his coat-tails and off I went tugging
at an old bear that swung a hind leg as he turned,
in the queerest way, and then sat up and beating his
breast sent out a mew-moan. Our room was richer
to me than all the Grange while these performances
were going forward. His monkey was almost as
wonderful as his bear, only he was too big for it,
and was obliged to aim at reality in his representation
of this animal by means of a number of breakages;
a defect that brought our landlady on the scene.
The enchantment of my father’s companionship
caused me to suffer proportionately in his absence.
During that period of solitude, my nursemaid had
to order me to play, and I would stumble about and
squat in the middle of the floor, struck suddenly by
the marvel of the difference between my present and
my other home. My father entered into arrangements
with a Punch and Judy man for him to pay me regular
morning visits opposite our window; yet here again
his genius defeated his kind intentions; for happening
once to stand by my side during the progress of the
show, he made it so vivid to me by what he said and
did, that I saw no fun in it without him: I used
to dread the heralding crow of Punch if he was away,
and cared no longer for wooden heads being knocked
ever so hard.

On Sundays we walked to the cathedral, and this was
a day with a delight of its own for me. He was
never away on the Sunday. Both of us attired
in our best, we walked along the streets hand in hand;
my father led me before the cathedral monuments, talking
in a low tone of British victories, and commending
the heroes to my undivided attention. I understood
very early that it was my duty to imitate them.
While we remained in the cathedral he talked of glory
and Old England, and dropped his voice in the middle
of a murmured chant to introduce Nelson’s name
or some other great man’s and this recurred
regularly. ’What are we for now?’
he would ask me as we left our house. I had to
decide whether we took a hero or an author, which
I soon learnt to do with capricious resolution.
We were one Sunday for Shakespeare; another for Nelson
or Pitt. ‘Nelson, papa,’ was my
most frequent rejoinder, and he never dissented, but
turned his steps toward Nelson’s cathedral dome,
and uncovered his head there, and said: ‘Nelson,
then, to-day’; and we went straight to his monument
to perform the act of homage. I chose Nelson